


Chains of Silver, Chains of Gold

by vlalekat



Series: I Will Be Your Only One [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: A little late, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, First Time, Fluff and Smut, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Please don't judge me, Porn With Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, but enjoy this porn, oh my god this is so dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlalekat/pseuds/vlalekat
Summary: The light filters through the sharp, smudged chunks of glass still wedged in the window frame, casting strange shadows over Desdemona’s pale face. The leader is leaning against the armrest of the sofa, and Glory feels that twitch deep inside her that always strikes when she sees Desdemona at rest; her face looks softer when she thinks no one is looking at her.The moment doesn’t last – it can’t – because whatever talents Glory has, stealth isn’t one of them. Desdemona doesn’t look at her, keeping her eyes on the pulverized landscape around them, but she greets her just the same.“Glory.” Just like that, no hello, no smile, no how are you doing? And yet the sound of her voice is so evocative, so sweet that Glory feels like her heart might burst. She’s shaking in her armor with a sudden wave of desire to bury her face in Des’s neck, but Glory stands still on the other side of the room, every inch of her the heavy.--Glory wants something from Desdemona now that they've finally admitted their feelings to each other. Desdemona delivers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to finish this in time for Femslash February but it just wasn’t done. So, I know it’s late, but we’ll just pretend February has 30 days like it should, won’t we? :)
> 
> So, please be aware, this is ridiculously filthy. Part of why I wanted to write it was to play with the trope that the big black girl has to be the “man” in an interracial lesbian relationship. I thought it worked especially well with these two, as Glory is new to this world of feelings and sex.

_Oh Juliet the dice were loaded from the start_  
_And I bet,_  
_And you exploded into my heart._

 

In early spring, the afternoons in the Commonwealth are still short, but the late hours are golden with the sun streaking across the sky. Glory is on her way back from Randolph Safehouse after depositing a package there, a jittery, beautiful synth named G5-19. She’d been nervous the whole way, and Glory worried that part of the problem might be their own history; she personally brought the girl back to the Institute on more than one failed escape attempt. Despite everything Glory had told her, despite Deacon’s protestations that G7-81 had flipped and been working for the Railroad for nearly two months now, G5-19 spent the whole trip looking over her shoulder. When they’d finally arrived way up north, the girl nearly collapsed into Joker’s arms.

“You’re safe,” Joker had said softly, rubbing her back. G5-19 had looked back at Glory over one narrow shoulder and finally given her a small smile.

“You have changed,” she’d said softly, her voice light and musical. It made something inside Glory light up, practically glow, and she’s carried that feeling the whole way back to the Switchboard.

Inside the fortified bunker, Desdemona is nowhere to be found. Glory supposes she could debrief with Carrington – the man is second in command for a reason, after all – but there’s more than one reason she wants to see Des.

The leader is nowhere to be found in the back tunnels, so Glory makes her way up into the old Slocum’s Joe. The building itself looks like every other unoccupied building in Lexington, ruined and half-collapsed in on itself, but if you know where to look, Des isn’t hard to find; she’s on the top floor, sitting on a mildewed red sofa next to a shattered window. The report of weapons echoes on the breeze; trouble to the south, but far enough that Glory isn’t worried. Probably those raiders that moved into the Corvega factory a few months back. Those assholes seem to love wasting ammunition, firing their weapons at all hours.

When she’d mentioned her worries about how close they were to Desdemona, the woman had smiled ironically over the smoke from her cigarette and told her that it was a good thing to have them so close – their erratic behavior gave the Railroad another measure of protection.

People would think twice about coming through Lexington now, Des had said softly, in that tone she always took when they were alone. It made their base safer to have danger so close.

It’s the kind of insane logic that Desdemona follows, and Glory doubts it sometimes, but in this instance the woman has proven right – no one’s stumbled through their area in months.

The light filters through the sharp, smudged chunks of glass still wedged in the window frame, casting strange shadows over Desdemona’s pale face. The leader is leaning against the armrest of the sofa, and Glory feels that twitch deep inside her that always strikes when she sees Desdemona at rest; her face looks softer when she thinks no one is looking at her.

The moment doesn’t last – it can’t – because whatever talents Glory has, stealth isn’t one of them. Desdemona doesn’t look at her, keeping her eyes on the pulverized landscape around them, but she greets her just the same.

“Glory.” Just like that, no hello, no smile, no _how are you doing?_ And yet the sound of her voice is so evocative, so sweet that Glory feels like her heart might burst. She’s shaking in her armor with a sudden wave of desire to bury her face in Des’s neck, but Glory stands still on the other side of the room, every inch of her the heavy.

“G5-19 is safe,” she says, trying to keep a business-like tone, though she worries that even those three words betray the longing inside her.

“And how is Randolph?”

“They’re doing well,” she says briefly. Too briefly, probably, so she tries to muster something else to say, something informative and not too forward. “They’re growing corn.”

Desdemona nods, and Glory blinks rapidly a couple times, trying to ignore the heat that’s spreading inside her. It’s been weeks since that night they first kissed, and while there have been soft touches and caresses, she longs for Des to press her up against the wall and just fuck her, just take her with her hands and her mouth. This stillness, this _quiet_ – it’s killing her.

“Well, if there’s nothing else,” she starts, but Des is still staring out over the splintered skyline. Her face has changed – if she was relaxed when Glory arrived she looks tense now, thoughtful.

“There might be,” Desdemona says. She’s using her Railroad voice now, a curt, bossy tone that means there’s another mission she needs Glory to run. Inside Glory feels herself deflate, feels her cheeks rush with blood. It’s a new sensation, blushing, one that she can’t seem to get used to. For a moment she envies Deacon his sunglasses.

It’d be easier to pretend nothing is happening if she could just hide her eyes. To this day she wonders if perhaps that’s why she was able to be a courser for so long; they kept her safe from the feelings of the synths she brought back, from their pleading and accusations.

Glory stands tall even though inside she wants nothing more than to flee, to find a quiet corner to catch her breath and try to understand what she’s feeling. Desdemona turns to look at her for the first time and grinds her cigarette out decisively in the scarred mustard-yellow ashtray that sits on the floor beside the couch. Her eyes glow amber in red rims, and Glory can see for the first time that she’s been crying. She turns her body so she can stand and stretches slowly.

“I was worried.” It’s the quiet voice again, the musical one that makes Glory go weak in the knees, and she does, God above help her, but she _does._ Before she knows what’s happening, Glory starts walking over, but Desdemona is standing and walking to her, too, and they meet in the middle of the room in a crash of searching limbs and lips seeking whatever skin they can find.

There’s the heat of Des’s breath on her throat, but Glory bends her face down to find Desdemona’s lips. There’s the overwhelming scent of cigarette smoke, but she doesn’t care; Des’s body is soft against her armor, and there are fingers fumbling with the straps of her jacket. She’s too busy sliding her hands under Des’s loose shirt to caress the soft skin of the woman’s waist to help, but then she has to let go to slide her arms out and allow the armored jacket to fall to the floor. Glory steps out of it and forward to press their bodies together, and there’s the tingling spark of physical contact, the softness of Des’s breasts against her own. She cradles Desdemona’s chin her hand and works her lips to the tender flesh of her earlobe, savoring the gasp Des lets out, the lingering hitch of breath.

Desdemona’s scarf is in her way, and so Glory grasps the tattered plaid and gives a sharp tug, and it falls free behind them, landing somewhere near Glory’s jacket. There’s the tingle of Des’s cold fingers at her throat and then she’s working the buttons of Glory’s shirt open. It’s really too cold to be naked up here – it might be spring, but it’s still early yet – and when the air hits her breasts, she can feel her nipples tighten. There’s a coil tensing inside her, and when Des begins kissing a line of Glory has to close her eyes and focus on breathing.

 _Just breathe,_ she tells herself. _Breathe._

Desdemona’s lips trace a circle of heat around one nipple, teasing – taunting – and then close firmly around it, and now Glory’s breath is coming out in ragged gasps, her hands flailing for something to hang onto. She opens her eyes and looks down at the auburn curls atop Des’s head, at the thin strands of gray starting to appear at the part. Des tilts her head and meets Glory’s eyes, and something about this steadies her.

There’s a line of fire going from her breast down to some secret place between her legs, and when Des places another gentle hand over the other nipple to tease it, Glory twitches, her knees buckling. She runs a hand down Desdemona’s body, sketching the outline of her breast, her waist, her hip, to rub against a thigh, and Des gives her a small hum of approval. The vibration sets that hot coil inside Glory springing, and she nearly collapses, help up only by the arm Des has wrapped around her waist.

She’s using her teeth now, gently but they’re still there, still sharp and there’s an undercurrent of pain that forces a groan out of Glory.

This is what she wanted, this is what she’s been dreaming of. When she woke the other day with the damp sensation of desire between her legs, it was this moment she’d been fantasizing about, and now that it’s really happening Glory can’t help but wonder if she’s really asleep.

But she’s not; she’s awake, and Des releases her mouth from Glory’s nipple with a pop that echoes through the room. Her lips are wet, and the saliva on Glory’s breast is cold now, but that makes it somehow more exciting. Desdemona works the other nipple between her thumb and forefinger, gently but firmly, and lets go of Glory’s waist, resting her hand on Glory’s hip. It burns through the rough fabric of her pants.

“Is this okay?”

 _Yes,_ Glory wants to scream, _yes, this is everything I’ve wanted ever since I met you, even before I knew I wanted it._ But she doesn’t trust herself to speak, doesn’t trust that her voice won’t come out in a lusty whisper, and so she nods eagerly. The smile on Desdemona’s face doesn’t quite counteract the red that still lingers around her eyes, but her hand is firm as she turns Glory gently, guiding her by her hip to the desk on the other side of the room.

Glory bumps into it and Desdemona lets go of her breast, releasing her nipple, and before Glory can let out a whine at the loss of contact Desdemona’s mouth is on hers again, her hands working at Glory’s belt buckle, at the zipper of her pants. There’s a rough, two-handed yank, and then her pants are down to her knees, sliding down to her ankles, and Des pushes her hurriedly up onto the desk by her shoulders.

She’s always been good at taking orders; it’s why she worked as a courser for so long, even after she wanted to quit. And this – whatever it is that’s about to happen – it’s something she wants, so Glory slides up on the desk, letting Desdemona slide her legs open with a tender touch up her thigh that is both cold and hot, her thumbs working in circles, the callouses on them setting icy fire to her skin.

“You’re…” Desdemona doesn’t finish the sentence because Glory lets out a loud gasp as knuckles brush up against the hair at the meeting of her legs. This close, she can feel the shudder Desdemona lets out at the sound, and then their lips come together in a frantic kiss, Des’s fingers exploring her down there, that place that she thought was only for voiding. Glory can feel now a slickness there, and for a moment she’s worried that she peed herself in her excitement, but Desdemona pulls back with a smile. She pulls her hand up from Glory, the other one tensing slightly on Glory’s hip, and it’s all Glory can do to grip the edges of the desk between tight hands as Desdemona licks her fingers.

“You’re so _wet,_ ” Desdemona sighs, and Glory blinks again. The sight of Des licking the clear fluid from her fingers is alarming and enticing in turns, and she bites her lip at the way it makes something inside her flex. Des sees it, and her features turn serious for a moment. “Is this still…?”

How to tell her that this is more than okay, that this is exactly what she wants, even though she has no idea what in the world is happening? Glory still doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she takes Des’s hand from her lips and places it back against herself, against that wet yearning, and there’s a flash of naked desire in Desdemona’s eyes. The fingers are drenched with spit and the thumb works its way over a particularly tender nub of flesh; for a moment stars dance behind Glory’s eyes, and then Desdemona slides a finger _inside_ her, and she lets out a long, guttural moan that makes the window shake.

Desdemona lifts her hand from Glory’s hip and puts it to her lips with a smile. _Shh._

Glory wants to obey, but it’s so difficult with the sensation of another slippery finger sliding inside her, with the way they turn so that Des can grind the heel of her palm on that sensitive bit at the top, and Glory can feel something more building inside her. The word climax comes to mind, and she shoves herself forward, working her hips in a circle so that she crushes herself against Des’s hand. She tosses her head back and pants; it’s the only way to keep from letting out another keening moan.

There’s the feeling of something inside her building, _building_ –

And then the sensation is gone; the hand is gone, slipped back out as easily as it went in, and Glory lifts her head to look down at Desdemona just in time to see the woman drop to her knees and put her mouth on Glory and _oh, god, oh yes, oh_ – she’s never felt anything like this, anything so simultaneously satisfying and frustrating. Des’s hands are on her hips again, holding her down against the desk as her tongue traces the outline of the opening below, and the sensation is so much more than there was before, the wetness and pleasure of it.

Desdemona kisses her, and licks her, and teases her by forcing her tongue inside as far as it’ll go, and Glory blinks rapidly, her eyes on the broken ceiling above her. She tries to trace the lines of mildew and rot to find something to focus on, something to help her come back down to earth, but then Des slides a finger inside her again and begins to suck on that little nub of pleasure – and when the hell did she get that and why is she only learning about it now? Glory wonders.

Glory rocks hard into Des’s face, and she wonders if the other woman minds, but given the soft groan coming up from between her legs, she supposes not. She grinds forward greedily as Des slides another finger into her – or is it two? – and this time she feels a wave of something coming, and then another, and _another._ The waves come closer together each time, and it’s becoming so hard to keep quiet, especially with the sound of Des sighing and moaning there, the warm vibrations of her mouth urging Glory on.

She lets go of the desk with one hand and stuffs the fist into her mouth, biting down on it so hard that there’s a bloom of pain, but it’s dulled by the distracting feeling of Desdemona’s tongue against her and then that welcome sucking, the fingers working their way up inside her to a sweet spot.

There’s a wet slurping noise and Glory can feel something moist make its way down her leg. Desdemona nuzzles her thigh and when Glory looks down she can see the leader of the Railroad on her knees between her legs, her lips and chin shining with wetness, and this more than anything sends her careening towards the black abyss of desire. Desdemona must see something she likes, because she nudges Glory with her nose and then her lips are back there, a soft brush of her teeth, and the delicious suction that sends rockets shooting down her spine.

Glory’s curls forward, her other hand tangled in Desdemona’s hair, and the auburn strands shining against her own dark skin in the dying afternoon light. She can’t stop herself now; she rubs herself into Des’s face, the hands on her thighs forcing her back just slightly. The fingers inside her crook one, twice, three times, tapping some secret spot that makes her feel like she’s exploding, and then it all happens at once.

There’s a delicious feeling of release, something she’s never felt before, and Glory lets go of Desdemona’s hair and collapses onto the desk on her back, a quivering mess of flesh, arms akimbo and shuddering as the waves course over her and through her, dragging her away from the shore.

She lies there for a very long time before she realizes how cold the air is. The sun has nearly set when she comes back to herself. Somewhere in the darkness is the sensation of Desdemona lapping at her still, but softer and less insistently, and a gentle rubbing of her arms and legs with tender hands. Eventually, Glory lands back in her body long and consistently enough to force herself into sitting again.

Her skin has gone cold despite the heat that just worked through her, and she shivers. Desdemona has wiped her face, but she’s still there, perched next to Glory on the side of the desk, holding her shirt and jacket. Glory stands slowly – her body is sore and yet somehow also made of jelly – and pulls up her pants, struggling to get them over her hips. Everything seems more difficult somehow, and not just because of the way Des is looking at her. The woman’s eyes are almost timid, and her fingers are fidgety. Glory can see she wants a cigarette, and as she pulls on her shirt, Desdemona gives in and pulls her pack out of her pocket.

When she’s dressed again and starting to feel like she understands words, Glory plucks the lit cigarette out of Desdemona’s hand and takes a long drag on it. Then another, and a third. When she’s feeling steadier, she turns and cups Des’s cheek in her hand, planting a flurry of kisses on her lips, her chin her nose, her cheeks. When she pulls back, Desdemona’s freckled cheeks are flushed pink.

Something inside her stomach turns over, a wicked flip, and Glory wonders if this is what love it.

“That was…” But there are no words for what that was. None that do it justice, at any rate. She lets out a low moan and smiles.

Desdemona has the grace to look at her boots, cheeks flaming, and when she looks back up at Glory’s eyes it’s with an intense expression of self-satisfaction. She takes the cigarette back and drags deeply on it, blowing the smoke up to the hole in the ceiling. Through it, Glory can see stars starting to come out.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Glory bumps Des’s shoulder with her own, a friendly gesture that makes that feeling of sparks start up under her skin again.

“Next time I think it’s your turn,” she says, then worries that maybe it’s too much. Desdemona will run now, will flee back downstairs to pretend this never happened.

But there’s a certainty in her amber eyes when she looks back at Glory. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

Inside the Switchboard, Deacon is back. Desdemona seems looser than usual, though only Glory knows why, and when Des teases Deacon about chasing ghosts again the words send a shiver through her body. Now that the door’s been opened, all Glory can think about is the way her breasts might feel without a bra, or whether those freckles are all over her body.

If she keeps going like this, she’s going to give herself away, she thinks, but it’s too late because now Deacon is settling down on the couch beside her with a weary sigh.

“How’s it going, Glory?” He greets her, and for a wild, insane moment she thinks of telling him what just happened. Instead – sensibly – she settles for a light shrug.

“Same as always, man.” He offers her a beer from his bag and she takes it, twisting off the cap and downing half of it in one gulp. Wow, is she thirsty.

“You look different,” he says, twisting off the cap of his own. His sip is smaller, and Glory looks away from him for a moment to watch Des bend over the desk across the room. From here she can see the curve of the woman’s body in her pants, and she wants nothing more than to cross it and trace her tongue up –

Glory wrenches her eyes back to Deacon, who’s watching her carefully behind his sunglasses.

“Nah,” she says, and the heat in her cheeks makes her wonder if he can see that she’s blushing. “Same as always.”

A small smile works the corners of Deacon’s mouth and his head turns slightly in a way that makes Glory think he’s glancing at Desdemona. Then she can feel his eyes back on her again, even if she can’t see them, and he clinks her beer with his.

“Good for you.”


End file.
